Aphrodite
by Caelitea
Summary: She loves her pokemon, and they return her adoration. He wonders just how far her influence extends; He doesn't realize he's already been trapped. —Lyra/Lance


**Notes:** I wrote this when I was madly obsessed with Lance/Lyra; I still like them, just perhaps not as passionately as before. I pair Lyra with quite a few people hahaha. Anyway, this sort of came from the whole trainer/pokemon relationship thing. Everyone always seems impressed if you and your pokemon have a really strong relationship, so either no one else has a similar relationship or you are just exceptionally awesome at raising pokemon. I dunno.

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_She loves her pokemon and that is all they know._

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It's true. She loves her pokemon. And it is nothing strange—gods no, it is nothing strange. But it is the simply way that she loves them and they love her back and their bonds are tighter than any other trainer's that amazes others.

You can tell with one glance that she loves her pokemon and they adore her as well.

Lance sees the closeness of their bonds immediately as she walks side by side with her typhlosion in Mahogany Town. At first glance it's nothing special—after all, he walks with his dragonite, and even the newest trainers walk with their starter pokemon—but just the way she is humming and the way that her typholsion seems to have this…_adoring_ expression in his eyes is proof enough that she will be a strong trainer, simply because she treats her pokemon well and it loves her with all its being.

But he doesn't stay long to observe her any further; what he caught in that glance was enough. He goes off to investigate rumors of forced evolution and then flies to Lake Rage to confirm them, but that young girl has already beaten him to it. She stands in the pouring rain unfazed, eyes watching the ruby red gyarados and a pokeball in hand.

He wonders if he should stop her, because the waters are choppy and the storm is raging and that poor gyarados is furious. But she sails out on her faithful pokemon, her form graceful as she sits on the goldeen's back, the goldfish pokemon's fins cutting through the stormy waters with calm and purposeful ease.

She engages in battle with an enraged gyarados.

He wonders if she might be crazy, and he wonders if he should go save her.

But no, she handles it gracefully and skillfully. In fact, she catches the red gyarados with a pokeball and she sits in the middle of the lake with the pokeball on her lap, smiling lovingly at the new addition to her team. She looks like a mother who has calmed down her bawling son.

He wonders if she might help him.

When she sails back onto shore, clipping the ball onto her belt, she walks straight up to him because she hadn't seen him there before but was aware that she was being watched. She gives him a smile, bright and sunny even though they are both being drenched by rain.

"Hello," she says, with a voice like the sound of a harp, "My name is Lyra."

He introduces himself as Lance, mumbles something about the information he has gathered, and flies back to Mahoghany Town without letting her get another word in.

It's rude, he knows, but he really shouldn't be involving civilians in this, despite her skills. He sort of hopes that perhaps his rudeness will keep her from following.

But she walks in some time later as he blows back the scientist who is surely involved with Team Rocket. She gives him a smile, but it has a tint of a smirk, and tint of expectancy.

So he finally gives in, and requests her assistance. She says yes, without hesitation.

And off they go.

(He is amazed as what she can do, for such a young girl and such a new trainer—)

When the time comes for him to leave her, he finds that he has enjoyed their short partnership. He gives her Whirlpool because he knows it's something that she'll need to continue her journey. She smiles again, and he turns to leave.

"Wait," she calls, and he turns. She holds out a piece of paper to him. "Here. Call me if you need anything."

He blinks, accepts the paper, and departs. He crushes it and discards it once they are out of her range; she knew that this would happen, and that is why she didn't ask to register her number directly, but he could tell that she was thinking it wouldn't hurt to try.

(But he's memorized it anyway)

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His grandfather calls him one day to tell his grandson that he met someone interesting today.

"Oh? You approved her, when you haven't even approved of Clair?" Lance chuckles. He knows his cousin must be jealous, although she would've been muted with their grandfather's rebuke. He hasn't approved of anyone since Lance himself, and that was years ago.

"Yes. She holds a strong love for pokemon. I could tell from the moment she walked in, and her answers to my questions only confirmed it. She had a red gyarados with her, and it adored her—it was almost strange, with how much they loved her, and how she seemed to love them back. I've never seen a gyarados so…calm."

Suddenly, Lance is reminded of that girl in the Rocket hideout, the one whose number he had crushed in his hand, only to find out that he had already memorized it.

"What was her name?" Lance questions, although he knows, it's obvious; she has a red gyarados and the pokemon adore her and she adores them as well.

"Lyra. Lyra Kotone. Even Clair went civil on her."

Lance smiles.

He knows that one day she'll come for him; he wonders if he, the greatest dragon-tamer, might be able to beat her; she, who is like Aphrodite that the pokemon grow stronger and stronger on the power of her love and the extents of the training that she gives them.

(in a way that he knows is mean, he wonders what she does when she loses, when her pokemon are hurt—)

He sees her as he is thinking this, and her typhlosion is on the verge of fainting when she comes out of the next gym. She strokes his fur and kisses his head, thanks him numerous times before letting him rest in his pokeball. She runs to the Center immediately, her eyes worried. She runs right past him, with nothing else in her sights except the Center and the assistance of the Nurse.

Strangely, he finds himself wishing for the feel of her lips and the touch of her fingers in place of her typhlosion—and he wonders how far her influence extends.

Lance shakes his head, no, she is too young, she is fifteen and he is twenty-five. He turns to ride his dragonite back home, but for whatever reason he glances back—

And she is there, looking at him, a knowing smile on her face, one hand on the impressive standing form of her healed typhlosion. Inwardly, he scowls, gives a tilt of his head, and flies off.

He looks back once more and sees her tiny form waving.

He forces his fingers not to wave back.


End file.
